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THE  ]  [BRARY 


[HE  UNIVERSITY 


OF  CAL IFORNIA 


LOS  ANGELES 


FROM  HEART'S  CONTENT 


FROM  HEART'S 
CONTENT. 


BY 

CLHRfl  DOTY  BHTES 


CHICAGO: 

MORRILL,  HIGGINS  &  CO. 


COPYRIGHT 
1892 

MORRILL,  HIGGINS  &  CO. 


077 


DEDICATION. 


a  dear  house,  beloved  of  pink  sweet- 
brier, 

Beloved  of  woodbine,  too,  and  then  of  fire, 
Spread  over  you  its  blessed,  sheltering  eaves, 
To  whom  I  bring  my  handful  of  song-leaves — 

A  single  handful.    Now  another  roof, 
Green,  and  with  granite  gables,  low,  aloof, 
Is  earth-home  for  you  through  the  flying  years, 
To  whom  I  bring  my  hearts  love  and  my  tears. 


759746 


INDKX. 


PROEM:    Achilles,  with  his  Wounded  Pride 9 

White  Violets 11 

Dandelion  Fashions 12 

Caprice 14 

Wake  Robin 15 

The  Blue  Bird 16 

Traverse  Trailing  Arbutus 18 

A  Fairy  Story 22 

Poke  Bonnets 25 

The  Lilac 27 

The  Miracle 29 

The  Dearer  Land 31 

The  Mystic  Voice 34 

Heyday,  Violet 36 

The  April  Shower 40 

A  Hyacinth  Bulb 41 

An  Easter  Flower 43 

The  Flax  Belle 45 

A  June  Merchantman 47 

The  Poppy 49 

The  Bobolink 51 

The  Spinner 53 

The  Weather  Prophet 55 

The  Chimney  Swallows 57 

The  Rushes 59 

The  Water  Lily 62 

By  the  Brook 64 

The  Spider  Web 66 


INDEX. 

A  Fantasy 68 

June 70 

The  Fireflies 71 

The  Wasp's  House 73 

Morning 76 

Harvest  Moonshine 78 

Clad  in  Gray 79 

The  Quail 81 

Grass  Gipsies 83 

On  an  October  Thistle 85 

The  Cricket's  Tale 88 

Meteors 91 

Fringed  Gentians 92 

Indian  Summer 94 

The  White  Deer 96 

Golden  Rod 97 

Thistle  Down 99 

A  Foggy  Morning 100 

October 102 

Autumn  Rain 104 

Hoar  Frost 106 

Autumn  Sunset 109 

A  Twilight  Mouse 110 

November 113 

Dark  Days  and  Fair 115 

The  Squirrel's  Wigwam 117 

The  First  Snow 120 

The  Robin's  Farewell 122 

The  Four  Winds 125 

Sundown  . ,  .127 


PROEM. 

ACHILLES  WITH   HIS  WOUNDED 
PRIDE. 


A  CHILLES,  with  his  wounded  pride, 
-tV     Left  the  Greek  tents,  and  by  the  sea 

Sat  down  and  told  his  injury 
To  Thetis,  underneath  the  tide. 

His  brave  soul  surged  with  wrathful  grief, 
Resenting  Agamemnon's  wrong — 
Did  not  the  maid  to  him  belong? 

Why  should  he  yield  her  to  his  chief? 

The  broad  waves  crowded  to  the  sand, 
Snow-white  and  green,  and  amethyst; 
And  Thetis,  like  a  silver  mist, 

Came  up  and  soothed  him  with  her  hand. 

9 


Oh,  when  by  grief  and  loss  opprest, 
My  heart  rebels  against  its  fate, 
And  lies  within  my  breast  a  weight, 

Of  all,  the  sorest,  heaviest, 

In  form  of  mist,  or  cloud,  or  flower, 
In  shape  of  singing  bird  or  bee, 
My  Mother,  Nature,  comes  to  me, 

And  soothes  me  with  her  holy  power. 


10 


WHITE  VIOLETS. 

A     STAR  fell  from  the  sky  at  night, 
**     Through  the  dim  stillness  of  the  blue, 
And  sank,  a  transient  gleam  of  white, 

Where  beds  of  early  violets  grew. 

It  left  no  vacant  place  on  high, 
It  gave  to  earth  no  added  light — 

But  flowers  of  color  like  the  sky 
Were  changed  into  a  starry  white. 


11 


DANDELION  FASHIONS. 

T  T  ERE  and  there — everywhere, 

•*•  *     Where  the  sun  is,  where  the  shade  is, 

Fresh  and  sweet  on  tip-toe  feet, 

Stand  the  dandelion  ladies; 
Showy,  gay,  in  spring  array, 

Scores  of  dandelion  ladies. 

Green  ruffs  deck  each  slender  neck; 

Every  head  has  perched  upon  it, 
Saucy,  jaunty,  made  to  flaunt,  a 

Little  yellow  satin  bonnet. 
What  a  place  for  a  pretty  face 

Is  a  yellow  satin  bonnet! 

This  the  style  for  a  little  while; 
Then,  despite  the  time  or  weather, 

All  unite  on  a  bonnet  white, 
12 


Trimmed  with  a  snowy  pompon  feather- 
Puffy,  fleecy,  moonshine,  breezy 
Thistle-fashioned  tuft  of  feather. 

Here  and  there — everywhere, 
Where  the  sun  is,  where  the  shade  is, 

Satin  crown  gives  place  to  down — 
Fickle  dandelion  ladies! 

Blows  the  wind,  and  who  can  find 
One  of  the  dandelion  ladies  ? 


13 


CAPRICE. 

[,  dear  me!"  cried  the  April  sky; 
"Oh,  dear  me — oh,  dear  me! 
I  feel  as  if  I  were  going  to  cry 

At  every  cloud  I  see." 
Then  tears  in  a  sudden  flood  ran  down 
Upon  the  world,  so  dusty  and  brown, 
Till  everything  in  field  and  town 
Was  wet  as  wet  could  be. 

"  Oh,  my!  oh,  my!"  cried  the  April  sky, 

As  she  bent  above  the  sea, 
"I  cannot  believe  that  horrid  face 

With  wrinkles  looks  like  me!" 
Then  she  laughed  outright  at  her  own  frown, 
And  green  grew  the  world  that  was  so  brown, 
And  all  the  shores  and  all  the  town 

Were  bright  as  bright  could  be. 


WAKE-ROBIN. 

the  robin — burnt-breast  bird — 
When  first  from  the  South  he  came, 
Whistle  a  hailing  word, 
Or  call  a  mystic  name? 

And  was  something,  hidden  dark 
Under  the  dead  leaves,  stirred? 

And  did  it  murmur,  "  Hark! 
My  comrade's  voice  I  heard?" 

And  rouse,  and  begin  to  grow 

With  all  the  speed  it  might, 
Until  it  had  lifted  — so 

This  three-leaved  flower  white? 

Wake-robin —  white  as  the  snow, 

In  field  and  woodland  place, 
Nothing  more  fair  can  show 

To  the  northering  sun  its  face. 


15 


THE  BLUE  BIRD. 

A     LEAF  from  the  branching 
**•     Blue  of  the  sky, 
Came  floating  downward 
From  somewhere,  up  there 
Very  high. 

The  wind  in  a  frolic 

Blew  it  along, 

From  roof-peak  to  fence-post, 
When,  suddenly,  vaguely, 

We  heard  a  song. 

Like  a  fairy  fife 

It  whistled  clear, 
Sweet  to  the  heart 
That  throbbed  to  hear  it, 

Sweet  to  the  ear. 

16 


A  leaf  sing — a  leaf 

From  the  sky's  blue  tree? 
A  silver  echo 
Of  songs  that  sunbeams 

Sing,  maybe? 

Ah,  no, — 'tis  the  bird 
That  knows  so  well 

When  really  and  truly 

The  winter  is  going, 
And  hastes  to  tell. 


17 


TRAVERSE  TRAILING  ARBUTUS. 

r  I  ^HAT  you  should  deem  the  place 
•*•     But  a  bleak  sandy  space, 
Flowerless,  desolate,  little  the  wonder, 
Till  you  discover  them, 
Stoop  and  uncover  them, 
Hidden  so  shyly  their  rusty  leaves  under. 

Not  yet  are  skies  serene: 
With  but  a  breath  between, 
Sunshine  comes  after  rain — rain  sunshine 

follows; 

In  their  chill  going,  slow, 
Lingering  wraiths  of  snow 
Whiten  the  north  hill-sides,  haunt  the  low 
hollows. 

But  with  a  sturdy  cheer 
Comes  this  brave  pioneer, 

18 


Daring  the  wilderness,  glad  in  waste  places; 

Indian  in  moccasin, 

Neighbor  and  next  of  kin, 
Though  in  fair  hue  itself  like  the   Pale-Faces. 

Housed  in  such  dingy  tent, 

Vagrant  and  indigent 
Surely  the  dweller  is.     Be  not  too  certain  ! 

All  know  what  lovely  eyes 

Look  from  the  beggar's  guise 
In  the  wise  fairy  tales.     Lift  up  the  curtain! 

Never  a  maiden  fair 

Come  upon  unaware 

Flushed  more  the  rose-leaf  hues  of  Love's  sur 
prises; 

And  the  air  redolent 

With  a  sweet,  subtle  scent, 
Makes  of  the  desert  a  garden  of  spices. 

Why  all  this  beauty  spread 
Here  where  no  foot  may  tread? 
All  its  pure  mission  vain,  sadly  you  ponder. 

19 


Hark  to  the  murmurings 
Through  the  pine-needle  strings  ! 
Hark  to  the  whispers  of  winds  as  they  wander — 

"Vain  no  created  thing — 

Bloom  in  sand;  bird  on  wing, 
Flying  unnoted;  nor  water  of  ocean, 

Though  it  forevermore 

Beat  on  undiscovered  shore; 
Nay,  nor  the  lightest  cloud's  airiest  motion; 

"  Nay,  nor  the  gems  that  shine 

Deep  in  the  deepest  mine; 
Nay,  nor  the   dried   leaf  by  Autumn  breath 

driven; 

Nay,  nor  the  unexpressed 
Hope  in  the  humblest  breast, 
Yearning,   aspiring  through   darkness   toward 
Heaven ! 

"  He  who  is  Infinite 
Watches  with  loving  sight 

Even  obscure  bud  and  dawn-tinted  blossom, 
20 


Though  never  human  eye 
Seeks  where  they  lowly  lie, 
Prayerful    with     perfume     upon    the    earth's 
bosom." 


21 


A  FAIRY  STORY. 

T  FIND  my  fairy  stories  in  a  book 
*     That  all  who  choose  may  read: 
Full  of  strange  wonder  to  the  eyes  that  look, 
And  to  the  hearts  that  heed. 

To-day  the  clouds  have  blotted  out  the  blue; 

Mists  hang  upon  the  hill; 
So  here's  a  fairy  story  that  is  true 

To  keep  the  children  still. 

A  little  thing  flew  through  the  summer  air, 

On  wings  of  misty  white; 

Loitered    and    faltered;   then,  none   knowing 
where, 

Sank  from  her  buoyant  flight. 

Either  she  found  unwonted  dew  or  green, 
And  craved  a  brief  delay, 
22 


Or  suddenly  some  kindred  hand  was  seen 
That  beckoned  her  to  stay. 

She  halted,  stayed,  nor  evermore  began 

That  filmy  flight  again, 
Nor  was  she  missed  by  any  eye  of  man — 

By  wind  or  sun  or  rain. 

The  spot  was  on  the  grass  beside  the  gate, 

Upon  a  quiet  street, 
Through  which,  day  after  day,  early  and  late, 

Passed  little  children's  feet. 

And  there,  after  a  winter's  ice  and  cold, 

After  long  weeks  of  snow, 
Close  to  the  daily  beaten  path,  behold 

Something  began  to  grow. 

The  children  spied  it,  knew  its  pretty  name, 

And  what  it  promised  knew; 
And  paused  an  instant  as  they  went  and  came 

To  see  how  fast  it  grew. 

23 


A  dented  leaf — from  that  called  lion's  tooth; 

A  low  bud,  greenish-gray; 
And  then  the  flower,  the   dandelion,   forsooth, 

So  round,  so  yellow,  so  gay! 

See  it — the  humble,  shining  little  thing — 

Just  what  our  tired  eyes  need. 
The  flying  fairy  of  the  misty  wing  ? 

Ah,  yes,  that  was  the  seed. 


2i 


POKE  BONNETS 

OH  ALL  I  tell  of  a  little  lady 
^     Who,  long  time  ago, 

Went  through  a  quaint  old-fashioned  garden, 
Tripping  to  and  fro? 

April  airs  were  shivery,  chilly — 

Walks  were  thawy,  wet — 
And  scarce  had  a  hyacinth  or  crocus 

Peeped  a  blossom  yet. 

But  in  a  sunny,  sheltered  corner, 

This  small  lady  knew, 
Always  first  of  the  green  things  hast'ning, 

Early  violets  grew. 

There,  indeed,  this  morn  she  spied  them, 

Hosts  of  tip-toe  elves, 
All  through  the  beds  and  grassy  borders, 

Out  to  sun  themselves. 

25 


Crowds  and  crowds  of  the  dainty  creatures, 

Colored  a  grayish  blue, 
As  if  a  bit  of  sky,  in  the  twilight, 

Had  fallen  with  the  dew. 

Happy  her  eager  eyes  to  see  them; 

Scanning  each  small  head, 
All  of  a  sudden  a  thought  came  to  her, 

And  she,  laughing,  said:— 

"Oh,  you  little,  sweet  poke  bonnets, 

Now  I  see  from  where 
Comes  this  tilted,  comical  fashion 

Of  the  one  I  wear." 

This  little  lady — do  you  know  her? 

Yes,  she  sits  to-day 
Here  in  her  rocking  chair — grandmother, 

Quiet  and  frail  and  gray. 

While  in  the  same  old  sunny  corner, 

Tip-toe,  every  one, 
Little  poke  bonnets  crowd,  delighted, 

Out  to  greet  the  sun. 

26 


THE  LILAC. 

sun  shone  warm,  and  the  lilac  said: 
*          "I  must  hurry  and  get 

My  table  spread, 
For  if  I  am  slow,  and  dinner  late, 
My  friends,  the  bees, 
Will  have  to  wait." 

So  delicate  lavender  glass  she  brought, 
And  the  dantiest  china 

Ever  bought: 

Purple-tinted,  and  all  complete; 
And  she  filled  each  cup 
With  honey  sweet. 

"Dinner  is  ready,"  the  spring  wind  cried; 
And  from  hive  and  hiding 

Far  and  wide, 
While  the  lilac  laughed  to  see  them  come, 


The  little  gray-jacketed 
Bees  came,  hum — m! 

They  sipped  the  syrup  from  every  cell, 
They  nibbled  at  taffy 

And  caramel. 

Then,  without  being  asked,  they  all  buzzed:  "We 
Will  be  very  happy 
To  stay  to  tea." 


THE  MIRACLE. 

T    AST  night  the  trees  were  bare 
••— '    When  we  looked  out  to  see, 
Against  the  sunset-colored  air, 

Their  complex  tracery, 
Like  webs  of  fibred  lace 

Between  us  and  the  sky, 
With  only  roughly-budded  trace 

Of  leaves  for  by  and  by. 

From  twilight  dusk  to  dawn 

There  were  no  shocks  nor  jars 
To  show  strange  work  was  going  on 

Under  the  watching  stars; 
No  sound  of  bursting  sheath, 

No  rending  of  close  chain — 
Only  a  sudden  risen  breath 

Of  cloud — a  soft,  sweet  rain. 

29 


But  see  our  maples  now; 

They  need  another  name! 
'  Our  elms,  like  last  night's,  bough  for  bough, 

Yet  not  at  all  the  same. 
More  leaves  are  out  than  could 

The  wildest  numberer  say — 
Transfigured  trees,  a  new-made  wood, 

A  resurrection  day! 

Yet  this  so  quickly  wrought — 

This  instant,  wondrous  birth — 
Grew  by  slow  process,  thought  on  thought, 

Out  of  the  hiding  earth. 
Unseen  and  silent  grew 

That  now  so  glorifies. 
What  miracle  can  Love  not  do? 

O,  read  with  grateful  eyes  ! 


THE  DEARER  LAND. 

A  LONG  a  sunny  southern  strand 
**     The  drowsy  water  lapped  the  sand, 

As  if  had  grown  the  wintry  sea 
Benign  and  friendly  to  the  land. 

A  shimmering  warmth  was  everywhere, 
For  soft  as  summer  blew  the  air, 

Which,  if  it  rustled  in  a  tree, 
Was  sure  to  find  a  blue  bird  there. 

One  in  his  bright,  sky-colored  coat 
Sat  from  his  singing  mates  remote, 

Some  saddening  thought  weighed  on  his  mind, 
And  checked  the  warble  in  his  throat. 

"This  all  is  fair,  I  know,"  he  sighed, 
"Still,  there's  a  dearer  land  beside, 

81 


Tis  bleakly  far,  yet  I  could  find 
Its  shelter,  without  light  or  guide." 

Next  day  the  listening  pine  trees  heard 
An  argument  of  bird  with  bird. 

"Too  early,"  many  cried;  but  one: — 
"It  can  no  longer  be  deferred." 

The  many  in  their  pleading  failed; 
The  lonely,  homesick  one  prevailed; 
And  so,  next  morn,  at  rise  of  sun, 
The  airy  fleet  of  blue  wings  sailed. 


Later.    A  Northern  morning  wild: 
Out  of  her  window  looked  the  child; 
Flurries  of  snow  were  flying  past; 
Her  casement  ledge  was  heaped  and  piled. 

She  looked;  and  suddenly  there  flew, 
Before  her  eyes,  a  fleck  of  blue. 

She  cried  with  joy:  "He's  here  at  last — 
I  knew  he'd  come,  I  knew,  I  knew! " 


He  heard  the  voice,  and  turned  to  greet 
The  longed-for  sound,  so  gay,  so  sweet, 
Nor  heeded  that  the  bough  was  cold 
And  snowy  to  his  tender  feet. 

But  sang  with  all  his  might  and  main: 
"Ah,  there's  my  little  girl  again; 

Ah,  there  she  is — the  Locks  of  Gold — 
To  greet  me  at  the  window-pane!  " 


THE  MYSTIC  VOICE. 

HPHE  wind  blows  south,  and  the  wind  blows 

west, 
And  up  on  an  apple-bough,  just  begun, 

Is  a  robin's  nest, 

And  blue-birds  look,  as  they  flit  and  call, 
As  if  the  cup  of  the  sky,  overrun, 
Some  drops  let  fall. 

The  wind  blows  east,  and  the  wind  blows  north, 
Yet  crocus-heads,  in  their  pretty  caps, 

Are  peeping  forth. 

Aimless  white  wings,  the  snow-flakes  fly  on, 
Then  rest  on  a  grass-blade,  or  perhaps 
On  a  dandelion. 

Each  has  given  a  willing  ear 
To  some  mystic  sign,  to  some  sweet  "Hail!" 
That  we  do  not  hear. 

34 


And  from  far  lands,  and  out  of  earth's  prison, 
Without  delay,  and  without  fail, 

They  sing,  they  are  risen! 

Oh,   for  an  ear  and  a  heart  as  willing 
All  still,  small  voices  within  to  heed 

To  as  sweet  fulfilling! 
To  heed  and  doubt  not:  sure  that  Duty, 

Though  her  ways  may  be  dull  and  cold,  will 
lead 

To  Joy  and  Beauty. 


\ 


HEYDAY,  VIOLET. 

TTEYDAY,  Violet, 
•*•  *    What  did  you  hear 

In  your  chill  bed, 
That  you  should  be  lifting 

Your  shy  head — 
A  silken  snood 
Knotted  as  would 

A  Puritan  maiden 
Her  blue  hood. 
And  in  your  neck 

So  lowly  a  crook, 
That,  however  he  tries, 
Not  once  in  your  eyes 
Can  the  passer  look? 

Ah,  Violet, 
I  long  to  know, 


But  you'll  not  confess? 
Then  must  I  study, 

Ponder  and  guess. 
Was  the  bird  I  noted, 
Swift  and  song-throated, 

Of  the  color  of  sky 
All  winged  and  coated, 
That  hither  flew 

From  the  warm  South, 
As  he  passed  you,  mute? 
Or  with  silver  flute 
In  his  sweet  mouth? 

Dear  Violet, 
So  silent  still? 

Then,  if  not  the  bird, 
Still  other  voices 

Perchance  you  heard  — 
A  dash  and  sprinkle 
A   rainy  tinkle 

On  the  tin  eaves, 
While,  with  patter  and  wrinkle, 
The  puddles  and  pools 

37 


Were  stirred  to  dance, 
And  with  bubble  feet 
Did  the  whole  wet  street 

Glisten  and  glance. 

Or,  Violet, 
Spake  there  a  sunbeam 

Through  the  mold, 
King's  messenger, 

With  proffer  of  gold? 
Largess  outspreading, 
In  your  lap  shedding 

Coin  and  trinket, 
And  ring  for  a  wedding? 
Or  did  a  wind 

Pipe  out  of  the  west, 
Call  for  you,  claim  you, 
Of  all  maidens  name  you, 
Rarest  and  best? 

Spake  Violet: 
"  All  those  I  heard, 

Nor  was  beguiled, 

38 


Nor  waked,  nor  stirred, 
Till  a  little  child, 

Laughing  and  merry, 

Step  like  a  fairy, 

Searched  for  me,  asked  for  me 

Eagerly,  very. 
Then  I  lifted  my  head, 

Shy  though  it  be, 
Out  of  the  grasses, 
That  when  she  passes 

Her  eyes  will  see." 


THE  APRIL  SHOWER. 

DOWN  the  drops  come,  tinkle,  tinkle 
With  a  sudden  dash  and  sprinkle, 
Though  as  blue  as  periwinkle, 
Was  the  sky. 

"  Some  mysterious  hocus-pocus, 
Knocked  above  us  and  awoke  us," 
Cried  a  little  yellow  crocus, 
With  a  sigh. 

There's  a  roaring,  there's  a  clatter, 
There's  a  smoky  dash  and  spatter 
Of  the  dust,  as  comes  the  patter 
Of  the  drops. 

Such  a  drencher,  such  a  pelter 
Is  it;  yet  when,  helter-skelter, 
Everything  has  found  a  shelter, 
Then — it  stops  ! 


.(0 


THE  HYACINTH  BULB. 

F^EHOLD  my  bulb  just  putting  forth  a  sheaf 

*— '     Of  tender  green  from  out  its   rusty  bud  ! 

Would  the  old  Greeks  have  found  upon  its  leaf 

"  Ai,  ai,"  and  in  its  flower  the   young  god's 

blood? 

I  find  a  sweeter  message  written  there — 
No  cry  of  woe,  no  hint  of  godhood  slain, 

But  early  promise  of  sun-flooded  air, 
Warm,  steaming  earth  and  wind-blown,  fra 
grant  rain. 

Stored  in  this  humble  bit  of  clod  there  lies 
Such  color  as  will  glad  all  eyes,  I  know. 

If  bees  love  blue,  then  every  bee  that  flies 
Will  hasten  to  it  when  it  comes  to  blow. 

My  heart,  oft   prone  to  question  and  to  doubt, 
Says  of  this  curious  sphere,  so  brown,  so  dull: 

41 


"  Soon  spikes  of  blossoms  will  come  bursting 

out." 
Says  readily,  "  They  will  be  beautiful." 

Ah,  since  such  easy  task  has  Faith  to  trace 
The  future  of  this  bulb  from  root  to  bloom, 

Why  should  Hope  flood  with   anguished  tears 

her  face 
Above  her  loved  ones  hidden  in  the  tomb? 

As  from  this  germ  a  hyacinth  will  grow, 
Sure  as  the  springtime,  sure  as  sun  and  rain, 

Out  of  their  blessed  depths  of  sleep  I  know 
In  God's  full  season  they  will  rise  again. 


42 


AN  EASTER  FLOWER. 

nPHROUGH  all  the  winter  chilly 

*       There  slowly  grew  a  lily, 
From  fresh  bud  thrust  above  the  bulb, 

To  soft  expanding  leaf, — 
Though  scant  the  sunshine  that  it  felt, 
Long  as  the  days  were  brief. 

We  knew  a  lovely  blossom 

Was  hid  within  its  bosom, 
And  that  its  one  green  calyx  sheath 

Did  tenderly  enfold 
A  snow-white  flower,  upon  whose  breast 

Would  shine  a  dust  of  gold. 

We  watched,  and,  ah,  we  waited — 
It  seemed  so  long  belated; 
We  gave  it  freely  light  and  drink, 

Though  filled  with  fear  and  doubt; 
0 


Would  ever  that  green  prison  burst 
And  let  its  captive  out? 

Behold  on  Easter  morning, 

With  no  unusual  warning, 
Our  lily  stood  in  perfect  bloom 

All  gloriously  white  ! 
And  thus  our  question  had  reply, 

Our  doubt  became  delight. 

Out  from  its  folded  prison 

We  felt  it  had  arisen 
To  prove  to  us  Life's  narrowing  bounds 

Will  blossom  and  unclose, 
Until  the  soul  is  freed  and  fair, 

As  Christ  himself  arose. 


44 


THE  FLAX  BELLE. 

'TJ'OREVER  vain  of  her  blue  bonnet, 

She  nodded  her  silly  head; 
The  summer  wind  blew  soft  upon  it, 
And  this  is  what  it  said: — 

"  Dancing  or  spinning,  which  are  you  doing? 

Lady  Flax,  with  body  slim 
Here  comes  a  worthy  lover  wooing; 

Pray  listen  now  to  him." 

On  business  bent,  came  humming  over 

A  big  commercial  bee; 
His  dealings  mostly  were  in  clover 

And  a  lively  trade  had  he. 

The  pretty  flax  began  coquetting, 
Nodding  her  bonnet  to  him, 

45 


Until,  his  busy  toil  forgetting, 
He  peeped  beneath  the  brim. 

"  Which  are  you  doing — dancing  or  spinning, 

Your  foot  so  daintily  trips? 
My  heart  is  lost  in  the  very  beginning, 

I  beg  to  kiss  your  lips." 

So  boldly  he  pleaded  a  kiss,  he  won  it — 

"  No  honey  there! "   he  said — 
"  Only  a  bright  blue  flaunting  bonnet 

On  a  little  empty  head." 

So  away  he  sailed,  this  work-day  lover, 

Scorning  the  flimsy  cheat; 
In  the  plainer  walks  of  weed  and  clover 

He  found  enough  of  sweet. 

Cried  the  angry  wind  in  a  rising  passion, 

"  Lady  Flax,  with  bonnet  blue, 
Never  think  with  an  idle  fashion 

To  hold  a  lover  true." 


A  JUNE  MERCHANTMAN. 

A  NCHOR  weighed,  adown  the  harbor, 
*»         With  all  her  canvas  spread, 
And  with  steady  prow  and  wake  of  murmur, 
A  small  grey  coaster  sped. 

Outward  bound  she  was  that  morning, 
On  the  sunny,  blue-air  sea; 

Rudder  to  guide  her  hither,  thither, 
And  fine  gauze  sails  had  she. 

"  Whither  away,  my  bonny  captain, 

Whither  away — away  ? 
To  Red-Rose  land,  or  Pansy  islands? 

Or  Hollyhock  country  gay? 

"To  the  sleeping  coast  of  scarlet  Poppy? 
To  the  Blue-flag's  sluggish  tide? 

47 


Or  to  the  port  where  the  Water-Lily, 
A  gold-oared  pinnace  rides?" 

"  Nay,  nay,"  cried  the  bonny  captain, 

"  I  sail  the  blue-air  sea 
Straight  for  plain  White  Clover  harbor, 

In  the  low  Trefoil  countree. 

"  I  shall  be  loaded  with  pure  sweet  honey, 
And  pure  sweet  wax  for  comb, 

All  that  a  small  gray  Bee  should  carry, 
When  I  come  sailing  home  !" 


THE  POPPY. 

"IX  THEN  first  we  spied  it  growing 

We  thought  it  but  a  weed, 
For  no  one  that  we  knew  of 
Had  planted  a  poppy  seed. 

But  suddenly  where  our  weed  was 

A  crimson  flower  stood, 
So  dainty  and  bright  we  named  it, 

Our  little  Red  Riding  Hood. 

We  said:  "See  how  she  carries 
That  sweetly  drooping  head, 

And  the  burnous  upon  her  shoulders 
Is  just  the  proper  red. 

"No  doubt  she  is  on  her  way  now 
To  grandmother's  in  the  wood, 

With  cakes  and  a  pat  of  butter — 
This  little  Red  Riding  Hood." 

49 


A  cloud — of  a  hand's  breadth  only — 

A  sudden,  gusty  stir — 
And  in  one  breezy  minute 

Nothing  was  left  of  her. 

Had  a  wolf  come  from  the  forest 
And  caught  her  where  she  stood? 

Ah,  the  wind  was  the  wolf  that  ate  her- 
Our  little,  Red  Riding  Hood. 


60 


THE  BOBOLINK. 

"TJELLO,"  cried  bobolink,  "hello  !" 
*  *     As  he  ran  up  the  stair 
Of  the  sweet  June  air, 
And  called  to  a  bee  below: 
"Say  there,  say  there, 
Bee,  keep  away  there! 
I  am  here  to  watch  you, 
Fly — or  I'll  catch  you!" 
And  across  the  clover  red 
The  bee  fled. 

Then  bobolink  laughed— "What  fun !" 

And  further  up  the  stair 

Of  the  sweet  June  air 
Climbed  till  he  spied  a  hare  run. 

She  now  and  then  hurried, 

Now  and  then  tarried; 

51 


As  he,  loud  and  clear, 
Shouted  "Out  of— out  of  here !" 
Then  swifter  than  the  bee 
Fled  she. 

The  bobolink  gurgled,  "Ho,  ho  !" 
And  down  the  sunny  stair 
Of  the  sweet  June  air 
He  ran  to  his  nest  below. 
Lady  wife  tittered, 
While  he  bubbled,  twittered, 
"Big  rabbit,  little  bee 
Are  both  afraid  of  me!" 
"Tis  because  you  are  so  noisy," 
Said  she. 


B2 


THE  SPINNER. 

A  H,  I  think  I  hear  a  sound, 
**  Something  humming  round  and  round. 
Is  it  wings  astir,  a  flutter, 
Just  outside  my  window-shutter — 

Whir,  whir, 
Soft  as  old  gray  pussy's  purr? 

May  be  moth  in  foolish  flight, 
Lured  here  by  my  candle-light, 

Eager  but  to  reach  the  burning 

Out  of  which  is  no  returning, 

Soft  of  wing, 
Newly-fledged  and  fluttering. 

White  the  moon  shines  through  the  pane; 

It  is  neither  wind  nor  rain; 

But  I'll  see  when  morn  uncloses, 
Fair  and  pink,  my  sweet-brier  roses, 

53 


What  it  is 
Makes  such  whirring  sound  as  this. 

Out  I  look  upon  the  dawn, 
Sound  of  spinning  wheel  is  gone. 

Half  unfolded  roses  cluster, 

And  a  web  of  silken  luster 

Hangs  and  sways 
In  the  early  morning  rays. 

Did  the  spider  make  the  whir 

As  she  spun  this  gossamer? 

Patient,  slow  from  the  beginning, 
Real  old-fashioned,  great- wheel  spinning, 
Thread  by  thread, 

Back  and  forth  with  busy  tread. 

All  I  know  is,  something  kept 

Fluttering,  rustling  till  I  slept; 
And  behold  this  fabric  shining, 
White  as  mist  with  silver  lining! 
I  believe 

I  did  hear  her  spin  and  weave. 

54 


A  WEATHER  PROPHET. 

IT  rains;  this  morning  on  a  tree, 
*  We  heard  a  low,  shrill  chirring; 
We  searched  to  find  it  carefully, 
For  well  we  knew  the  rogue  must  be 
A  little  tree-frog  purring. 

Blue  as  a  larkspur  was  the  sky; 

The  bees  went  booming,  humming; 
While  clouds  like  fair,  slow  ships  sailed  by; 
No  sign  was  there  to  any  eye 

Of  sudden  rain-storm  coming. 

But  chirr!  he  piped,  and  chirr!  and  chirr-r  ! 

The  children  sighed,  "  Provoking  !" 
Quite  out  of  sorts,  indeed,  they  were 
That  that  small  hidden  thing  should  stir 

The  sweet  air  with  his  croaking. 

B5 


Their  play  was  planned  for  out  of  doors 
When  first  they  heard  him  calling, 

And  now  a  heavy  darkness  lowers; 

Rain  pattered  first,  and  now  it  pours 
As  if  the  sky  were  falling. 

I  fancy  he  will  find  some  chink, 

With  twigs  and  leaves  for  cover, 
Where  he  can  safely  sit  and  blink, 
And  thrust  his  nose  out  for  a  drink, 
Until  the  rain  is  over. 

You'd  like  to  see  him  some  fine  day? 

Only  quick  eyes  can  find  him. 
He  has  a  most  mysterious  way 
Of  being  gray,  if  bark  is  gray, 

Green,  if  there's  green  behind  him. 

His  guesses  are  not  always  right 

To  the  extent  of  bringing 
A  thunder  rack  of  black  in  sight; 
Yet  sweet  as  the  whistle  of  Bob  White 

Is  the  little  tree-frog's  singing. 

56 


THE  CHIMNEY  SWALLOWS. 

i  a  puzzle  indeed 
I  cannot  read, 
As  to  what  is  the  earthly  sense  or  need 
For  these  little  things, 
With  their  swift  wings, 
To  turn  from  the  bough  that  tosses  and  swings, 

And  to  choose  as  the  best 

Nook  for  a  nest 
The  very  last  place  one  would  have  guessed, 

When  the  summer  tide, 

So  warm  and  wide, 
Flows  sunny  and  sweet  on  every  side. 

The  chimney  top  !  — 
Nay,  they  do  not  stop 
Even  at  that  point,  for  down  they  drop  — 
Down  out  of  the  light, 

57 


Where  'tis  dark  as  night, 
And  the  soot  is  the  only  thing  in  sight. 

Just  think  of  a  bird 

That  never  heard, 
As  a  baby,  leaves  above  him  stirred; 

Nor  the  lullabies 

Of  the  wind's  soft  sighs 
To  bring  the  sleep  to  his  little  eyes  ! 

But  instead,  four  grim 

Black  walls,  and  a  dim 
Far  speck  of  the  blue  sky  over  him, 

Are  all  he  sees! 

What  sights  are  these 
A  little  king  of  the  air  to  please  ? 

Nor  sound  is  here 

For  the  song-tuned  ear 
Except  the  flight  of  the  mother  near. 

His  own  sharp  cries 

Have  for  replies 
But  her  common  comfort  of  bugs  and  flies. 


And  when,  ere  long, 

His  wings  grow  strong, 

And   he  flies  with  the  rest  of   the  twittering 
throng, 

How  can  he  know 

Which  way  to  go, 
Where  all  is  dazzle  and  song  and  glow  ? 

If  it  fell  to  me 

To  suddenly  see 
So  much  strange  color  and  life  and  glee, 

Or  fell  to  you, 

What  should  we  do  ? 
Why,  I  think  perhaps  we  might  fly  too. 


59 


THE  RUSHES. 

QUCH  fun  the  rushes  have, 
^     With  nothing  else  to  do 
But  paddle,  paddle  in  the  water 
All  the  day  through. 

In  a  shallow  pool 

By  the  river's  brim, 
There  is  room  for  thousands  of  them, 

They're  so  very  slim. 

All  about  their  feet 

Crinkly  ripples  run; 
Now  and  then  a  minnow  swimmer 

Glances  in  the  sun. 

Hither,  too,  and  thither, 

Right  before  their  eyes — 
Long  and  slender  darning  needles — 

Flit  the  dragon  flies. 

60 


Do  the  rushes  laugh? 

Yes,  in  their  soft  way; 
And  they  whisper  to  each  other 

All  the  time  and  say: 

"  Oh,  isn't  it  fine  fun 
With  nothing  else  to  do, 

But  paddle,  paddle  in  the  water 
All  the  day  through?" 


61 


THE  WATER  LILY. 

HPHE  midnight  face  of  the  mountain  lake 
-*•       A  mask  of  silver  wore, 
With  sombre  locks  of  fern  and  brake 
Fringing  the  dusky  shore. 

I  saw  among  the  myriad  stars, 

Floating  therein  serene, 
A  boat  with  golden  masts  and  spars 

And  oars  of  emerald  green. 

A  merry  chorus,  low  and  sweet 
As  the  summer  hum  of  bees, 

And  the  graceful  beat  of  dancing  feet 
Came  to  me  on  the  breeze. 

It  anchored — every  gleaming  oar 
Fell  from  the  rower's  hands; 

The  fairies  lightly  stepped  to  shore 
Upon  the  shining  sands. 

62 


At  morn  I  sought  it — found  not  them 
Who  gay  moon-tryst  had  kept, 

But  moored  upon  its  swaying  stem 
A  water-lily  slept. 


BY  THE  BROOK. 

RIGHT  in  the  sunny  spaces, 

Dark  in  the  shady  places, 
Glides  the  brook  with  tinkling  tones, 
Over  the  smoothly-polished  stones, 
Lisps,  and  whispers,  and  seems  to  think: 
"Run  I  must,  run  swift  and  cool, 
For  further  on,  by  the  quiet  pool, 
The  thirsty  grasses  wait  to  drink." 

Then  as  it  onward  passes, 

Greetingly,  meadow-grasses 
Bow  their  long  green  bodies  low. 
"See,  little  brook,  how  fast  we  grow  ! 
Nests,  the  cosiest,  homelike  things, 

Hide  with  their  young  birds  at  our  feet; 

That  is  why,  so  noisy  and  sweet, 
Bobolink  with  his  neighbor  sings." 

64 


Then  from  the  waving  cover, 

Bubbling,  brimming  over, 
Bobolink  flies  up  to  shout 
Some  of  his  pent-up  music  out. 
"I  rise  to  tell  you,"  he  twitters  fast, 

"If  some  of  you  are  scared  to  hear 

The  sound  of  a  foot-fall  drawing  near, 
Tis  the  dear  little  school-girl  going  past." 

She  moves  along  the  meadow 

Followed  by  fairy  shadow, 
That  tries  to  be  as  light  and  fleet 
As  are  her  happy  bounding  feet. 
Tinkles  the  brook  from  place  to  place, 

Nod  the  grasses,  and  sings  the  bird, 

As  on  she  goes,  with  never  a  word, 
But  only  a  smile  on  her  sunny  face. 


THE  SPIDER  WEB. 

T  \  fHO  but  a  fairy 

*   *       Ever  lived  in  a  house  so  airy? 
A  bit  of  cloud  tied  fast  as  it  were, 
And  framed  of  the  finest  gossamer — 
A  wonderful,  shining,  silky  house, 
Swaying  here  in  the  sweet-brier  boughs. 
Sprite  of  some  kind — Queen  of  the  air — 
Must  needs  be  the  one  for  a  home  so  fair. 

Does  she,  I  wonder, 
Stand  these  pale-pink  blossoms  under, 
Dressed  in  a  skirt  of  vapory  blue, 
All  spangled  over  with  drops  of  dew? 
Does  she  wear  a  crown,  and  in  her  hand 
Carry  aloft  a  long  gold  wand? 
Has  she  wings  to  fly  with,  gauzy,  green? 
And  where  are  the  folk  she  rules  as  queen? 

63 


I  look  and  linger, 

And  touch  the  web  with  careful  finger; 
When — in  an  eager,  crafty  way — 
Out  leaps  a  little  gnome  in  gray! 
The  tiniest  ogre  that  ever  sate 
And  watched  for  prey  at  his  castle  gate: 
His  eight  long  arms  so  strong  and  bold 
With  which  to  seize,  and  strangle,  and  hold  ! 

Should  he  discover 
Some  truant  creature  passing  over — 
A  bee  or  fly  on  tired  wing 
Careless  and  fond  of  loitering, 
I  wonder  if  a  mimic  roar 
Would  reach  its  ears  from  out  his  door: 
"  Fe,  fi,  fo,  fum  !     Fe,  fi,  fo,  fum  ! 
I  will  have  some  !     I  will  have  some  !" 


67 


A  FANTASY. 

OLD-RIBBED  and  silken-sailed  from  rose 

to  rose, 

With  honey  laden,  fairy  wild  bees  break 
The  currents  of  the  air  with  steady  prows, 
Leaving  a  surge  of  humming  in  their  wake. 

The  wind  sways  with  its  music  all  the  trees 
Whose  leafy  whispers  make  the  bird-hearts 
beat; 

While  soft  cloud-fleets  sail  heaven's  azure  seas, 
Vast  phantom  navies  ride  the  billowy  wheat. 

Black  water-spiders  spin  swift  webs  of  light 
Moving  upon  the  still  face  of  the  spring; 

And  bending  ferns  upon  the  pebbles  white 
Their  graceful  forms  in  quiet  shadows  fling. 

The  fishes  stirring  in  the  water  clear, 

Bind  nets  of  sunlight  on  their  golden  scales; 


The  water-lilies  ride  at  anchor  near 

With  sides  of  shining  green  and  waxen  sails. 

I  hear  the  tiny  mermen's  laughter  sweet, 
Sporting  the  swaying  water-weeds  among, 

And  in  the  rustling  brook  are  sounds  of  feet, 
Quick   beat  of  drums  and  shouts  of  merry 
song, 

With  click  of  many  a  pebble  Castanet 
As  in  an  eager  multitude  they  flee 

Through  the  pure  freshness  of  the  rivulet 
On  to  the  bitter,  million-peopled  sea. 


JUNE. 

/"~\UT  in  the  meadows  clangor  and  din! 
^•^     Bobolinks  jubilant  over  the  clover, 
Poised  above  it  or  hidden  in; 
Reeling,  shouting  song  upon  song — 

Shouting  the  same  tune  over  and  over, 
Drunken  with  melody  all  day  long. 

Over  the  uplands,  idle,  cool, 

Truant  winds  with  the  sunshine  wander, 
Wrinkling  the  sleeping  face  of  the  pool — 
Swaying  the  rose's  graceful  head 

That  bends  its  blushing  cheeks  to  ponder 
The  sweet  false  words  the  bees  have  said. 


70 


THE  FIREFLIES. 

"X  1  TE  watched  the  fireflies  flashing 

Through  the  dusk  and  dewy  air, 
Like  a  gleam  of  wandering  lanterns, 
Here  and  there. 

"What  bright-winged  and  jeweled  creatures 

Must  those  small  things  be,"  we  said, 
"May  be  gold  and  silver,  may  be 
Burning  red." 

So  we  caught  one,  soft  out-flashing 

Near  us,  bore  him  tenderly 
To  a  light  within,  that  better 
We  might  see. 

Well,  and  was  his  body  golden, 

Gilded  round  with  burnished  rings? 
And  did  quills  of  silver  feather 
Make  his  wings? 

71 


No;  we  found  our  fine  light-giver 

Just  a  small,  plain,  gray-brown  fly, 
With  no  outward  sign  of  splendor 
To  the  eye. 

And  we  thought  one  cannot  always 

Take  the  garment  as  a  sign 
Of  how  far  and  bright  some  inner 
Light  may  shine. 


THE  WASP'S  HOUSE. 

WOU  call  them  hateful  little  things, 

Whose  airy  wings 

Bear  them  aloft,  as  a  thistle's  crown 
Is  blown  by  a  zephyr  up  and  down. 
You  fly  with  dread,  or  shrink  with  fear 
If  one  of  them  simply  pauses  near. 

See  here,  beneath  the  vine-hung  eaves, 

Where  trailing  leaves 
Hide  it,  as  if  it  had  not  been, 
Is  the  little  house  the  wasps  live  in; 
Made  of  wonderful  paper,  gray, 
As  if  worn  by  the  weather  many  a  day. 

I  wonder  what  would  be  inside, 

If  open  wide, 
Upon  noiseless,  silken  hinges  hung 

73 


Some  secret  door  or  casement  swung, 
And  we  such  a  hasty  glance  might  cast 
As  a  swallow  does  in  sailing  past. 

Would  we  see  a  fairy  palace,  where 

A  silver  stair 

Of  filigree  wire  runs  to  seek, 
Through  many  a  story,  the  topmost  peak, 
And  the  spacious  rooms  and  vaulted  halls 
Have  floors  of  wax,  and  waxen  walls? 

Or  would  it  be  a  prison  grim, 

Where  heavy  and  dim 
The  air  is  ever  with  sounds  of  pain, 
Of  bolt  and  bar  and  of  prisoner's  chain; 
And  where  the  captives,  held  to  die, 
Are  shrunken  of  limb  and  sad  of  eye? 

Ah,  neither;  listen  the  harmless  hum, 

As  go  and  come 

Those  little  people,  who,  day  by  day, 
Have  toiled  and  wrought  with  the  paper  gray  ! 
Nothing  of  mystery  is  in  this; 
But  only  a  simple  Home  it  is. 

74 


And  cheerily,  with  the  sweet  bread 

Of  honey  fed, 

Therein  the  young  ones  wait  their  wings. 
And  though  we  may  think  wasps  hateful  things, 
Yet  surely  we  must  have  the  grace 
To  own  that  their  house  is  a  cosy  place. 


75 


MORNING. 

nPHE  doors  that  night  had  barred  with  dark, 
•*•       Morn  opens  with  a  golden  key, 
And  in  her  lightning-winged  barque 
Comes  flashing  o'er  the  sea. 

Heaven,  with  her  dusky  mask  thrown  off, 
Smiles  gloriously  to  see  her  come; 

Waves,  whispering  of  her  beauty,  doff 
Bright  caps  with  plumes  of  foam. 

Gray  mists  steal  backward  at  her  glance; 

Breezes  leap  up,  to  wake  and  stir 
The  June  leaf-pulses,  in  a  dance 

That  shakes  the  gossamer. 

The  lips  of  Silence  part  to  sing: 

And  startled  Echo's  thousand  throats, 

Mid  hum  of  bee  and  flash  of  wing, 
Repeat  the  wondrous  notes. 

76 


Oh,  Morn  of  Hope,  within  my  soul, 
That  bursts  the  bonds  of  grief  and  doubt, 

Thus  let  all  gladness  inward  roll 
As  night  and  fear  go  out ! 


77 


HARVEST  MOONSHINE. 

round  moon  comes  from  the  distant  seas 
With  a  silvery  softness  in  her  light, 
And  the  dusky  trunks  of  the  forest  trees 
Gleam,  pillars  of  marble,  tall  and  white. 

The  hill  crouches  down  'neath  the  sky's  cool 
calm, 

With  its  tawny  mane  of  ripened  wheat, 
Like  a  lion  under  a  towering  palm 

After  its  chase  in  the  desert  heat. 


CLAD  IN  GRAY. 

LITTLE  housewife  bee, 

Fussy  and  gray  was  she, 

Hummed  at  the  clover  tops  continuously. 


A 


The  summer  day  was  fair, 
And  through  the  sunny  air, 
The  birds  on  breath  of    song  soared  every 
where. 

She  had  no  colored  coat, 
No  gold  band  at  her  throat, 
Nor  painted  wings  to  flutter  with  or  float. 

A  sort  of  grizzled  fur 
Wrapped  and  encompassed  her, 
Except  her  wings  of  faded  gossamer. 

79 


Her  voice  was  low  and  fine; 
I  heard  her  drone  and  whine; 
I  saw  her  heedless  of  the  song  and  shine; 

And  yet  it  seemed  that  none 
Under  that  summer  sun 
Was  any  happier  than  this  busy  one. 

The  idle  and  the  gay 
Went  on  their  careless  way, 
Nor  noted  the  little  housewife  clad  in  gray; 

And  yet,  I  thought,  how  sweet 
The  honey  she  could  eat: 
How  cool  the  clover  must  be  to  her  feet  ! 

The  wholesome  element 
Of  Labor's  true  content 

Was  through  her  humble,  plodding  presence 
lent 

To  a  day  otherwise 
Given  to  butterflies, 
That  fluttered  but  to  vanish  from  the  eyes. 

80 


THE  QUAIL. 

"\  X  7"HEN  the  fields  were  ripened 
*  "       And  the  woods  were  red, 
To  her  little  flock  of  chickens 

Mother  Quail  said: 
"Here's  a  lesson  for  you! 

Be  sure  you  say  it  right, 
Whistle,  now  whistle — 
Bob,  Bob,  White  !" 

"Oh,  mother  dear,"  they  quavered 

"That's  the  name,  perhaps, 
Of  the  roving  farmer  boy 

Who  sets  quail-traps  ! 
If  we  sing  together, 
Out  he  might  run, 
To  shoot  your  little  children 
With  his  dreadful  gun  !" 

81 


Mother  Quail  was  troubled, 

She  glanced  at  the  sky: 
"Clouds  are  rather  black,  I  think 

T  will  rain  by  and  by. 
So  here's  another  lesson 

That  is  better  yet, 
Whistle,  now  whistle — 
More,  more  wet." 


82 


GRASS  GIPSIES. 

\  X  7HY,  here  is  a  camp, 

On  the  wayside  grass  ! 
Let's  look  at  the  tents 

Before  we  pass. 
Beaded  with  dew 

Is  every  one  — 
Ah,  'tis  only  webs 

The  spiders  have  spun. 

They  are  gipsies.     Think 

When  night  fell  down, 
How  they  set  to  work, 

So  tiny  and  brown, 
To  pitch  these  tents  — 

Each  gathering  boughs 
To  kindle  a  fire 

Before  his  house. 

83 


How  a  grandmother  sat 

Under  the  flap 
Of  a  tent,  and'rocked 

A  babe  in  her  lap  ! 
And  how  on  a  stick 

A  kettle  was  hung, 
That  to  cook  their  supper 

Bubbled  and  sung. 

How  swarthy  youths 

Topk  their  guitars, 
And  played  serenades 

To  the  far  stars; 
And  shadows  danced  wildly 

All  about, 
Till  the  low  red  fire 

Had  faded  out ! 


ON  AN  OCTOBER  THISTLE. 


U 


GH!  Shriveled  and  cold, 

Bald-headed  and  old, 
They  stop  at  a  thistle-top  to  warm — 
The  burly  wingers, 
The  honey  singers, 
The  veterans  left  from  the  summer  swarm. 

First  Bee: — Ah,  me! 

To  have  lived  to  see 
Gray  hairs  and  grief  and  poverty  ! 

To  have  grown  so  old 

That  my  bands  of  gold, 
Bright  yellow  once,  are  dim  with  mold ! 

I,  such  a  fop 
That  I  could  not  stop 
At  any  but  snow-white  clover-top, 
To  bow  my  head, 

85 


And  beg  for  bread 
From  only  a  common  weed,  instead  ! 

Second  Bee: — Hello  ! 

Why,  I've  let  go  ! 
My  fingers  fail,  they  have  weakened  so. 

The  most  to  be  said 

Of  this  thistle-head, 
As  a  first-class  inn,  is,  that  it's  red. 

Why,  in  my  day, 

To  have  come  this  way, 
Was  to  meet  all  Bee-dom,  blithe  and  gay. 

There  was  all  the  sweet 

That  we  could  eat, 
But  now — Hello!  I've  lost  my  feet ! 

Third  Bee : — Egad ! 

Zounds!  but  I'm  mad, 
Such  a  wretched  time  as  I  have  had. 

My  voice  has  grown 

Hoarse  as  a  bone, 
That  once  was  the  silveriest  baritone. 

86 


Indeed,  it's  rough 

To  bark  and  cough, 
Till  the  skin  of  one's  throat  is  all  worn  off. 

And  to  be  pointed  out 

As  having  the  gout, 
Because  I  have  grown  a  little  stout ! 

So,  there  they  pined, 

And  droned  and  whined, 

And  grumbled  and  buzzed  till  the  sun  went 
down. 

Next  day — alas  ! 

Upon  the  grass 
Lay  three  little  shrunken  tufts  of  brown. 


THE  CRICKET'S  TALE. 


morning,  Mr.  Cricket, 
How  did  you  sleep  last  night? 
Sure,  never  was  the  sky  so  clear, 
The  moon  so  big  and  white. 
I  listened  to  the  concert 

Your  friends  gave.     Certainly 
They  played  with  more  than  usual  skill 
That  blue-grass  symphony." 

He  sat  in  the  sunshine,  rubbing 

His  arms  and  back  and  knees, 
And  shook  his  bulgy  head  and  sighed: 

"Don't  ask  me,  if  you  please, 
For  I  never  closed  a  winker  ! 

We  played  the  concert  through, 
Though  I  scraped  those  blessed  fiddle-strings 

Up  to  my  chin  in  dew. 

88 


"My  friend  with  the  hurdy-gurdy, 

And  the  one  with  the  flageolet, 
The  bagpipe  man  and  the  bugle-blower 

Were  drenched  and  dripping  wet. 
And  just  in  the  very  thickest 

Of  baritone  and  bass, 
A  misty,  ghostly-looking  thing 

Came  stealing  by  the  place. 

"I  felt  a  chill  like  the  ague 

Go  crawling  up  my  spine; 
And  my  neighbor  with  the  castanets 

Begged  for  a  sip  of  wine; 
And  the  tenor  in  his  solo 

Coughed  between  every  note, 
And  the  little  soprano  lady  tied 

A  kerchief  round  her  throat. 

"The  pipes  whined  shrilly,  feebly; 

One  quaver  the  bassoon  blew; 
Then  all,  as  if  of  one  accord 

Stopped  short,  and  shuddered,  'Ugh  !' 

89 


Not  another  chirrup  they  ventured, 

Jingle,  tinkle  or  clink  ! 
Now,  who  was  that  misty,  ghostly  thing?" 

I  said,  "Jack  Frost,  I  think." 


90 


METEORS. 

TT  snows — for  whitely  through  the  dark 
*     And  silence  of  the  autumn  night 
Has  fallen  many  a  gleaming  spark; 

And  yet  the  meadows  are  not  white. 

Late  flowers  bow  their  heads  in  sleep; 

With  plaint  the  night  bird  keeps  awake; 
The  moon  swings  on  her  light  lines  deep 

In  the  blue  waters  of  the  lake. 

The  wind  sobs  fitfully;  the  trees 

Weep  faded  leaves  to  prove  their  woe, 

That  once  in  answer  to  the  breeze 

But  song-notes  gave  and  whispers  low. 

Yet  skies  are  clear — it  is  not  snow, 

No  cloud  frowned  from  the  face  of  even — 
But  weeds  the  hands  of  angels  throw 

From  out  the  star-flower  garden,  Heaven. 

91 


FRINGED  GENTIANS. 

00  long  had  the  October  skies 
^     Worn  frown  of  cloud  and  rain, 
It  seemed  as  though  my  tired  eyes 

Would  never  see  again 
What  they  so  loved — the  tender  hue 
Of  heaven's  own  blue. 

1  watched  in  vain  for  brightening  streaks 

As  dawned  or  died  the  day; 
But  still  the  distant  mountain  peaks 

Wore  cowls  of  misty  gray; 
Nor  gleamed  one  shining  hand-breadth  through 
Of  heaven's  own  blue. 

I  sought  a  lonely  country  road, 

With  bare  fields  at  each  side, 
Where  late  the  golden-rod  had  glowed 

In  all  its  plumy  pride — 


Lo,  something  at  the  wayside  grew 
Of  heaven's  own  blue. 

Fringed  gentians — each  one  bearing  up 

Atop  its  humble  stem, 
As  with  an  arm  aloft,  a  cup; 

I  paused  to  look  at  them — 
As  deep  a  tint  they  wore,  as  true 
As  heaven's  own  blue. 

I  had  so  missed  the  sky's  dear  face, 

Its  color  and  its  light; 
Yet  here  in  this  deserted  place 

Was  something  just  as  bright — 
The  bluest  thing  I  ever  knew 

Except  heaven's  blue. 

Thus,  often  when  the  joys  of  earth 
Are  dimmed,  or  disappear, 

Lo,  humbly  in  the  wayside  dearth 
We  find  some  other  cheer — 

Some  lowly  flower  that  wears  the  hue 
Of  heaven's  own  blue. 

93 


INDIAN  SUMMER. 

AUTUMN— an  Indian  red  and  old, 
Whose  heart    was    throbbing  faint  and 

slow, 

Wished  ere  it  grew  forever  cold 
To  be  at  peace  with  all  below. 

Round  the  frost-kindled  council-fire 
Gathered  the  tribes  from  far  and  near; 

Last  words  this  dying  chief  and  sire 
Would  speak  that  day,  and  all  must  hear, 

His  weak  hand  grasped  a  calumet — 

A  reed  for  stem,  a  red  clay  bowl, 
The  whole  with  bits  of  feather  set — 

He  filled  it — lit  it  with  a  coal, 

Then  spake  to  them:  "  My  race  is  run: 
My  feet — no  longer  swift — are  bound 

94 


Far  past  the  setting  of  the  sun 
Into  the  happy  hunting  ground. 

"  So  warriors,  brothers,  braves,  to-day 
Our  hands  will  meet,  our  strifes  will  cease. 

Smoke  with  me  in  last  friendly  way 
This  pipe — this  calumet  of  peace. 

"  Now  I  have  done."     His  gray  head  bent 

As  bends  a  corn-ear  fully  ripe, 
And  round  the  dusky  circle  went, 

From  lip  to  lip,  the  lighted  pipe. 

Up  from  the  forest  council-fire 

A  cloud  of  azure  vapor  broke, 
Veiled  with  soft  haze  the  sky  entire, 

And  mantled  all  the  earth  with  smoke. 


THE  WHITE  DEER. 

I  LOOKED  upon  a  cloudless  night 
And  saw  a  white  deer  bounding  past 
Where  fetters  of  the  cold  moonlight 
Held  all  the  forest  shadows  fast. 

His  hoofs  were  silver,  and  they  beat 

So  silently  the  dewy  sod, 
I  said:  "They're  shod  like  goblin  feet; 

At  morn  I'll  find  the  path  they've  trod. 

"  The  jewel-weed  and  asters  grow 

In  tangles  by  the  river's  brink, 
This  is  his  run-way,  and  I  know 

He's  going  there  to  graze  and  drink." 

When  the  first  sunbeams  ran — alas! 

The  pathways  where  the  white  deer  crossed, 
I  found  upon  the  glistening  grass 

The  foot-prints  only  of  the  Frost. 

96 


GOLDEN-ROD. 

A  N  idle  breeze  strayed  up  and  down 
**     The  rusty  fields  and  meadows  brown, 

Sighing  a  grievous  sigh:    "Ah,  me  ! 

Where  can  the  summer  blossoms  be?" 
When  suddenly  a  glorious  face 
Shone  on  him  from  a  weedy  space, 

And  with  an  airy,  plumy  nod, 

"Good  afternoon,"  said  Golden-Rod. 

The  breeze  received  her  courtesy, 
And  then  came  hurrying  home  to  me, 
And  eagerly  this  story  told: 
"  I've  seen  a  lady  dressed  in  gold, 
So  shining  that  the  very  light 
That  touches  her  is  doubly  bright — 
She  nodded,  too,  a  royal  nod." 
"Why,  that,"  I  said,  "is  Golden- Rod." 

97 


"Come  out  and  see  her  where  she  stands, 

Gold  on  her  head  and  in  her  hands," 
He  cried;  and  I  without  delay 
Went  after  where  he  led  the  way; 

And  there  she  stood,  all  light,  all  grace, 

Illumining  the  weedy  place, 
And  to  us  both,  with  airy  nod, 
"Good  afternoon!"  said  Golden-Rod. 


98 


THISTLE  DOWN. 

IV  T  EVER  a  beak  has  my  white  bird 

Nor  throat  for  song, 
But  wings  of  silk  by  soft  wind  stirred, 
Bear  it  along. 

With  wings  of  silk  and  a  heart  of  seed, 

O'er  field  and  town, 
It  sails,  it  flies — some  spot  has  need 

Of  a  thistle  down. 


99 


A  FOGGY  MORNING. 

A     SMALL,  close  world  it  seems  to-day, 
**     With  fog  about  us,  chill  and  gray, 
As  if  had  giant  spiders  spun 

Their  webs  between  us  and  the  sun, 
Nor  any  wind  had  strength  to  stir 

Their  leagues  on  leagues  of  gossamer. 

Dim  shapes  of  elm  and  locust  wait 
Like  shadowy  sentinels  at  the  gate; 

They  outline  'gainst  the  ghostly  white 
The  utmost  limit  of  our  sight; 

There  are  no  streets,  no  passers-by, 
No  spire,  no  mountain-peak,  no  sky. 

And  yet  a  strong  wind  rushing  forth, 

With  cool  fresh  breath,  from  out  the  north, 
Would  part  this  cobweb  vail  in  twain 
100 


And  bring  the  sweet  world  back  again- 
The  blue  of  sky,  the  fervid  sun, 
And  all  bright  things  he  shines  upon. 


101 


OCTOBER. 

T    EAPS  October  from  the  ashes  dead 
*— '  Of  the  radiant,  glowing-souled  September  ! 
Now  the  sun  burns  in  the  heavens,  red 
As  an  angry  eye,  or  a  far  ember. 

To  the  sky  the  giant  groves  of  oak 

Arms  of  dull  bronze,  acorn-hung,  are  raising; 
Poplars  all  are  dimly  white  like  smoke; 

All  the  sumach's  minarets  are  blazing. 

Ripe  nuts  hang  upon  the  bending  trees, 
Like  the  pendant  heads  on  lily  anthers, 

Squirrels,  springing,  shake  them  like  a  breeze — 
Squirrels,  black  or  tawny,  lithe  as  panthers. 

Deer  look  into  wild  eyes  as  they  drink, 

Eyes  all  dark  and  soft  and  clear,  with  wonder; 
102 


Wrinkled  waters  make  the  rushes  shrink — 
Break    their    shadowed    lengths    of    green 
asunder. 

Crickets  clang  their  black  metallic  wings, 
Drowning  insect  pipings,  shrill  and  slender; 

Tardy  bees,  begirt  with  golden  rings, 

Hum  around  the  garden's  faded  splendor. 

All  the  year's  sweet  heats  and  growths  are  fled; 

All  its  days  are  sad;  and  changed  and  sober 
All  its  golden  glow,  its  burning  red, 

As  it  wanes  toward  winter,  through  October. 


108 


AUTUMN  RAIN. 

T  WATCH,  the  while  my  window-pane 
*     Is  drenched  with  chilly  tears, 
To  see  if  once  the  weather-vane 
Turns  from  the  East,  or  veers; 
But  blurring,  blinding,  falls  the  rain 
Until  the  twilight  nears. 

And  then  across  the  stormy  sky 

I  see  a  brightening  rift; 
Like  wings  almost  too  weak  to  fly, 

The  gray  clouds  slowly  drift, 
Till  suddenly  my  waiting  eye 

Beholds  them  rise  and  lift; 

Uprise,  uplift,  till  they  disclose 

The  old-time,  tender  blue, 
Like  a  vast  azure  lake,  that  shows 

Bright  islands  scattered  through— 
101 


Islands  of  purple,  pearl  and  rose, 
And  every  sunset  hue. 

If  but  the  thrushes  lingered  yet, 

How  surely  should  we  hear, 
From  some  tall  tree-top  in  the  wet, 

Their  music  sweet  and  clear, 
Ready  all  darkness  to  forget 

Soon  as  the  light  shines  near. 

But  days  are  short,  and  birds  are  few; 

And  leaves  let  go  their  hold 
From  frosted  twig  and  bough,  to  strew 

The  ground  with  faded  gold; 
And  long  ago  the  songsters  flew; 

The  year  is  growing  old. 

Be  thou,  then,  Heart,  the  thrush  to  sing  ! 

Take  on  thyself  that  part, 
Though  heavy  with  much  sorrowing, 

And  doubts,  and  cares,  thou  art. 
Fair  morrow  will  red  sunset  bring; 

Sing  gratefully,  O  Heart ! 

105 


HOAR  FROST. 

T  \  TAKE  early,  Gold  Locks,  come  and  look  ! 
*  "  The  grass  is  all  a  shining  white, 

As  if  above  it  in  the  night 
Their  wings  a  flock  of  snow-clouds  shook 

And  scattered  here  and  there  a  plume  ! 
Or,  rather,  white,  as  I  have  seen 
Upon  it,  in  its  first  young  green, 

The  fallen  showers  of  orchard  bloom. 

A  winter  crisp  is  in  the  breeze, 
A  winter  dazzle  on  the  lawn, 
As,  flushed   and  summer-like,  the  dawn 

Comes  up  from  out  its  crimson  seas. 

The  keen  frost-crystals,  starlike,  plain, 
Vanish  before  it  from  our  view, 
First  they  become  a  shower  of  dew, 

And  then  a  dripping  shower  of  rain. 

106 


'T  were  lovely,  if  we  need  not  know 
That  in  an  hour  the  aster  beds, 
With  all  their  purples,  all  their  reds, 

Such  blackening  change  must  undergo; 

And  that  the  woodbine,  which  has  grown 
Of  late  so  like  a  kindling  flame, 
Bent,  as  if  overcome  with  shame, 

Will  all  its  loosened  leaves  drop  down. 

Somehow,  the  autumn  signs  dismay 

With  symbols  the  foreboding  heart, 
Since  Life  sees  its  own  counterpart 

Always  in  blossom  and  decay 

Ah,  child, — my  fancy  runneth  so — 

Time's  dread  hoar-frost,  as  white  and  cold 
As  this,  must  some  day  touch  the  gold 

That  has  such  live,  bright  overflow 

Upon  your  little  head — almost 

Too  shining  and  too  warm  a  braid 
It  seems  now,  as  it  hangs,  to  fade 

Under  the  touch  of  any  frost ! 

107 


Yet  will  it  come,  I  know.     But  when 
This  ruddy  color  silvered  is 
I  may  not  be  where  I  shall  miss 

Its  tender  earthly  sunshine.     Then 

Heaven  shall,  perhaps,  have  satisfied. 

And  you,  in  that  far  time,  which  seems 
Too  distant  even  for  my  dreams, 

Will  have  your  own  dear  fireside; 

Perhaps  a  little  grandchild,  too, 

Which  you  will  guard  with  heart  and  eyes- 
As  now  the  two  gray  heads  you  prize 

And  love,  so  watch  and  cherish  you. 

3fc  3fc  3fc  %  $F  # 

See  !  while  in  reverie  Fancy  hath 
So  fleetly  run  to  that  far  land, 
Upon  whose  vague,  untrodden  sand 

She  fain  would  trace  your  future  path, 

The  aster  stalk  has  bent  its  crown 
Of  purple,  or  of  red,  indeed, 
While  slowly,  as  if  wounds  did  bleed, 

The  woodbine  leaves  are  dropping  down. 

108 


AUTUMN  SUNSET. 

EACH  tree-top  waved  a  crimson  crest, 
A  burning  belt  bound  every  spire, 
As  on  the  hearth-stone  of  the  west 
The  evening  lit  its  glowing  fire, 

Warm,  red;  then  backward  seemed  to  gaze 
Upon  the  earth,  as  one  would  turn 

From  his  own  cheerful  parlor  blaze 
To  watch  the  street  lamps  dimly  burn. 

The  fire  died  out;  then  chill  winds  blew 
The  clouds,  like  ashes  gray  and  white, 

About  the  air;  in  dark  and  dew 

Came  down  the  gloomy  autumn  night. 


109 


A  TWILIGHT  MOUSE. 

"\  JL  7OULD  you  think  a  mouse  could  fly- 
*  *       A  mouse  with  soft,  bright  eye, 

Clothed  in  a  gray-brown  wrap 

Of  fur,  or  silk,  mayhap, 
And  with  clinging,  claw-like  feet, 
And  heart  with  a  panting  beat? 

No  doubt  you  are  wont  to  think 

Mice  live  in  a  cupboard  chink, 
And  only  in  crannies  creep, 
To  scurry,  and  blink  and  peep; 

To  nibble  at  things,  or  gnaw 

With  white  teeth  sharp  as  a  saw. 

But  if  not  a  mouse,  what  then 

Is  this  twilight  denizen, 
That,  without  quill  or  feather, 
Has  suddenly  fluttered  hither, 
no 


And  that  we,  I  scarce  know  how, 
Have  made  our  captive  now? 

It  is  nothing  to  shudder  at; 

It  comes  with  the  dusk — the  bat. 

It  likes  the  shadows'  hue; 

It  likes  the  smell  of  the  dew; 
And  perhaps  is  fond  of  the  far 
Sky-gleam  of  moon  or  star. 

Awkward?  hideous? — look 

At  the  end  of  each  wing  a  hook  ! 

These  are  its  fore-feet,  see 

It  walks  so  curiously. 
And  its  black  nose?    Well,  I  own 
It  does  look  upside  down. 

Feel  now  how  like  a  drum 

Its  tiny  heart's  wild  thrum  ! 
And  see  how  the  lamp's  light 
Dazzles  its  purblind  sight — 

Poor  little  throbbing  thing, 

Give  it  its  silken  wing  ! 
111 


And  when  next  dusk  you  spy 

A  flitting  thing  go  by, 
Think,  "  That  is  our  prisoner, 
The  bat  with  mouse-like  fur 

And  vellum  wings,  that  goes — 

Whither,  nobody  knows!" 


112 


NOVEMBER. 

T~X  AMP  is  the  air  with  coming  snow; 

* — ^   In  rustling  flocks  the  dead  leaves  blow 

Like  birds  a  chilly  storm-wind  beats. 
I  watch,  through  the  imprisoning  glass, 
The  muffled  people,  hurrying,  pass 
Along  the  windy  streets. 

I  have  my  will,  but  not  my  way, 
Else  were  the  distant  meadows  gay 

With  clover  bloom  and  bumble-bees; 
The  dun  wheat  stubble-lands. were  seen 
Rolling  their  billows,  glistening,  green, 

To  counterfeit  the  seas. 

These  dull  low  skies  of  threatening  hue 
Were  hung  with  banners  broad  and  blue; 

Or  black,  and  sharply  cloven  in  twain 

8 

113 


With  lightning  like  a  sabre's  flash, 
Shaken  with  answering  thunder  crash, 
Were  spent  in  sweet  warm  rain. 

Each  green  bough  swung  its  singing  bird; 
Each  living  creature  had  its  word 

Of  happy  love,  or  joy,  or  praise; 
Were  all  that  flood  of  sunshine  back, 
Unfelt  were  the  wild  loss  and  lack 

Of  these  November  days. 

I  have  my  will,  but  not  my  way, 
Else  Yea  were  the  great  barrier  Nay 

That  frowns  between  me  and  the  Light; 
The  future  of  my  dreams  were  here; 
Hope's  far,  faint  glory  dazzled  near 

And  full  into  my  watching  sight; 

Work  fell  to  none  but  the  able  hand; 
After  brave  effort,  ample,  grand, 

Came  the  achievement ! — Vain  my  one 
Weak,  human  protest;  better  pray  : 
"When  my  will  thwarts  Thy  righteous  way, 

Ever  Thy  will  be  done  !" 

114 


DARK  DAYS  AND  FAIR. 

/"~\NE  day  goes  clouded  to  its  close, 
^•^At  setting  dull  as  when  it  rose; 
Another  has  the  sunny  blue 
Arched  over  it  from  dew  to  dew; 
More  have  their  mingled  phases — rare 
The  wholly  dark  or  wholly  fair. 

So  lives  their  little  orbits  run 

Either  in  shadow  or  in  sun. 

This  glad  one,  noonday  tempests  smite; 

This  sad  one,  evening  glories  light 

With  unexpected  radiance.    Rare, 

The  wholly  dark  or  wholly  fair. 

But  Faith  has  wings  for  any  sky  ! 
Send  her  abroad  her  powers  to  try 

When  the  uplifting  airs  are  warm, 
us 


That,  should  her  flight  encounter  storm, 
With  trial  made  strong,  her  wings  may  dare 
Boldly  alike  the  dark  and  fair. 

Secure  the  soul  that  rests  on  Faith  ! 

Upborne  as  by  an  animate  breath, 

She  soars  beyond  earth's  loss  and  gloom, 

Beyond  the  shadow  of  the  tomb, 

With  rapture,  where  is  Heaven's  free  air 

Wholly  unclouded,  wholly  fair  ! 


116 


THE  SQUIRREL'S  WIGWAM. 


T 


'HEY  laid  it  low, 

Row  upon  row , 
The  tall  straight  corn  that  rustled  so. 
Its  once  rank  green  was  dry  and  sere — 
Stalk,  leaf-blade,  tassel,  silk  and  ear 
Shriveled — and  of  its  waving  grace 
Only  a  stiffened,  ghostly  trace. 

The  work  all  done 

That  rain  and  sun 

Had  lavished  such  sweet  care  upon  ! 
The  long  ranks  where  the  summer  wind 
Could  walk,  and  clouds  their  shadows  find, 
Gathered,  and  set  in  shocks  to  stand 
Lifeless,  to  wait  the  husker's  hand  ! 

117 


Yet  presently 

A  new  degree 

Of  grace  that  cornfield  had  for  me. 
One  shock  was  a  true  wigwam  shape, 
The  long  leaves  just  the  things  to  drape 
About  the  tent-poles,  shelter  fit 
For  what  live  thing  might  live  in  it. 

Now,  what  if  through 

Some  chink,  a  blue, 

Faint  smoke-puff  should  go  up,  and  you 
Should  spy  a  red-man,  with  a  deer 
Slung  on  his  shoulder,  drawing  near; 
A  leather  belt,  knives  dangling  there 
And  eagle  feathers  in  his  hair  ? 

A  startling  phase 

Of  wild- wood  ways 

Twould  be  for  these  tame  modern  days; 
But  I  see  something  which  to  me 
Is  quite  as  interesting — he, 
That  fine  fox  squirrel,  running  fleet 
Towards  it  with  his  spry,  small  feet. 

118 


He'll  find  the  door, 

Be  sure  ;  and  more 
He'll  find  the  gold  corn-ears  in  store. 
And  till  the  huskers  come  to  tear 
His  wigwam  down,  will  scamper  there, 
In,  out,  small  red-man,  saucy,  slim, 
As  if  the  place  were  made  for  him. 


119 


THE  FIRST  SNOW. 

\  X  TITH  dull-red  splendor  in  his  gaze, 
*  *     The  sun  sank  to  his  nightly  rest, 
And  clouds  whose  rims  were  all  ablaze 

Piled  mountain-high  with  gloom  the  west. 

Without  the  sunset's  golden  flush 
To  crimson  o'er  the  winter  sky — 

To  make  the  leafless  tree-tops  blush, 
The  fields  in  burning  glory  lie; 

To  wander  lonely  wilds  about, 

Each  lowly  hut  from  gloom  to  win, 

Making  a  warm  fire  glow  without 

Where  warm  fires  never  glowed  within; 

To  wind  a  thread  of  silver  light 

Where  streams,  locked  in  an  icy  hold, 
120 


Lay  whitely  'mid  the  forest's  blight, 

Their  lips  of  music  dumb  and  cold — 

Nature  was  desolately  drear, 

And  told  in  wailings  loud  and  deep 

A  tale  of  hopeless  woe  and  fear, 

As,  wrapped  in  clouds,  she  sank  to  sleep. 

But  when  the  monster  Cyclops,  Day, 

Shaking  the  dun  locks  from  his  brow, 

Opened  his  great  dull  lid  of  gray, 

The  world  was  beautiful  with  snow. 


121 


THE  ROBIN'S  FAREWELL. 

OOD-BYE,  old  tree,  good-bye  ! 

I  leave  my  nest  with  you; 
You'll  need  it  when  your  green  leaves  die, 

And  your  apples  are  fallen  too; 
Something  upon  your  boughs 

For  children  to  come  and  see, 
If  only  a  bird's  deserted  house — 
Good-bye,  old  apple  tree  ! 

We  were  friends  from  the  very  first, 

When  in  the  chill  March  air, 
Before  a  single  bud  had  burst, 

I  found  you  bleak  and  bare. 
Even  then  your  branches  stirred 

In  a  kindly,  welcoming  way, 
As  if  they  knew  a  lonely  bird 

Needed  some  place  to  stay. 

122 


And  after  that  you  spread 

The  greenest,  leafiest  roof 
That  ever  sheltered  a  robin's  head, 

Waving,  but  weather-proof. 
And  I  remember  well 

How  every  gala  breeze, 
Before  your  pink-white  blossoms  fell, 

Brought  scores  of  honey  bees. 

They  hummed  their  drowsy  tune; 

My  mate  sang  loud  and  sweet; 
And  the  sun  winked,  and  the  quiet  moon 

Walked  by  with  silver  feet; 
While  with  my  mother-wings 

J  brooded  the  eggs  of  blue, 
Till  those  four  red-breast  little  things 

Grew  restless  and  broke  through. 

You  rocked  them  every  one; 

But  now,  in  the  usual  way, 
They  have  learned  to  fly,  and  would  be  gone, 

And  so,  we  are  off  to-day. 

123 


More  than  they  dream  of  now 

They'll  miss  your  lullaby, 
Miss  every  leaf,  and  twig  and  bough — 

Good-bye,  old  tree,  good-bye  ! 


THE  FOUR  WINDS. 


wind  of  the  south 
Comes  over  the  land, 
With  a  flute  in  her  mouth 
And  a  dandelion 

Within  her  hand. 

Like  a  giant  to  wrestle 
Is  he  of  the  North, 
Yet  a  boy  to  whistle 
In  chimney  and  keyhole 
When  he  goes  forth. 

The  wind  of  the  West 
Is  a  gentle  soul, 

And  rocks  the  nest 

And  the  yellow  fledgelings 
Of  the  oriole. 

125 


Cries  the  East  to  the  vane, 

"No  time  to  lose, 
It  is  going  to  rain, 
Get  out  your  umbrella 
And  overshoes  !" 

Now,  which  of  these 

Do  you  like  the  best — 

The  blue-bird's  breeze, 

The  giant  whistler, 

The  East  or  the  West? 


126 


SUNDOWN. 

r  I^HE  day  begins  to  doze: 
-*•       Her  wide  blue  eyes  are  tired  of  light, 
The  sun  has  glared  so  fierce  and  bright. 
So,  drawing  close  her  cloudy  cap 
About  her  forehead  for  a  nap, 
From  out  her  western  sleeping-place, 
She  smiles  "  Adieu,"  her  broad  fair  face 
Red  as  a  rose. 

The  world  of  fleece-white  snow 
Grows  gray  and  chill;  but  in  the  sky 
Winks  here  an  eye  and  there  an  eye — 
Winks,  blinks,  then  stays,  a  keen  cold  spark, 
To  watch  the  sullen  stealthy  dark 
Out  of  its  cavern  rise  and  drift, 
As  if  a  river  black  and  swift 

Did  overflow. 

127 


Slowly,  and  not  too  soon 
To  make  her  radiance  the  surprise 
And  glory  of  the  waiting  skies, — 
A  silver  kite  on  viewless  line, 
Or  bubble  blown  to  soar  and  shine, 
Shedding  the  hoar-frost  of  her  rays 
Broadcast  in  one  wide  luminous  haze,- 

Rises  the  moon. 


128 


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